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Farewell To Sicily

Hamish Henderson
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OriginalIl testo originale della poesia di Henderson trascritto da The...
FAREWELL TO SICILY

The pipie is dozie, the pipie is fey
He wullnae come round for his vino the day
The sky o'er Messina is unco an' grey
An' a' the bricht chaulmers are eerie

Fareweel ye banks o' Sicily
Fare ye weel ye valley an' shaw
There's nae Jock will mourn the kyles o' ye
Puir bliddy swaddies are weary

Then doon the stair and line the waterside
Wait your turn the ferry's awa'
The doon the stair and line the waterside
A' the bricht chaulmers are eerie

Fareweel ye banks o' Sicily
Fare ye weel ye valley an' shaw
There's nae name can smoor the wiles o' ye
Puir bliddy swaddies are weary

The drummie is polisht, the drummie is braw
He cannae be seen for his webbin' ava
He's beezed himsel' up for a photy an' a'
Tae leave with his Lola, his dearie

Then fare weel ye dives o' Sicily
Fare ye weel ye shielin' an' ha'
We'll a mind shebeens an' bothies
Whaur Jock made a date wi' his dearie

Then fare weel ye dives o' Sicily
Fare ye weel ye shielin' an' ha'
We'll a mind shebeens an' bothies
Whaur kind signorinas were cheerie

Then tune the pipes and drub the tenor drum
Leave your kit this side o' the wa'
Then tune the pipes and drub the tenor drum
A' the bricht chaulmers are eerie.
FIRST ELEGY: END OF A CAMPAIGN

There are many dead in the brutish desert,
Who lie uneasy
Among the scrub in this landscape of half-wit
Stunded ill-will. For the dead land is insatiate
And necrophilous. The sand is blowing about still.
Many who for various reasons, or because
Of mere unanswerable compulsion, came here
And fought among the clutching gravestones,
Shivered and sweated,
Cried out, suffered thirst, were stoically silent, cursed
The spittering machine-guns, were homesick for Europe
And fast embedded in quicksand of Africa
Agonized and died.
And sleep now. Sleep here the sleep of the dust.

There were our own, there were the others.
Their deaths were like their lives, human and animal.
There were no gods and precious few heroes.
What they regretted when they died had nothing to do with
Race and leader, realm indivisible,
Laboured Augustan speeches or vague imperial heritage.
(They saw through that guff before the axe fell.)
Their longing turned to
The lost world glimpsed in the memory of letters:
An evening at the pictures in the friendly dark,
Two knowing conspirators smiling and whispering secrets;
Or else
A family gathering in the homely kitchen
With Mum so proud of her boys in uniform:
their thoughts trembled
Between moments of estrangement, and ecstatic moments
Of reconciliation: and their desire
Crucified itself against the unutterable shadow of someone
Whose photo was in their wallets,
Then death made his incision.

There were our own, there were the others.
Therefore, minding the great word of Glencoe’s
Son, that we should not disfigure ourselves
With villainy of hatred; and seeing that all
Have gone down like curs into anonymous silence,
I will bear witness for I knew the others.
Seeing that littoral and interior are alike indifferent
And the birds are drawn again to our welcoming north
Why should I not sing them, the dead, the innocent?


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